Magic In Strange Places

Written for the Harryronbigbang on Livejournal!

Title: Magic In Strange Places
Summary: Ron is hiding far too much, and confiding in those who are safe -those who don't know him, or don't know his life and past. But if he looked closer, what truths would he find?
Rating: R
Words: ~17,074
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All characters engaging in sexual activity are 16 years or older.
Warnings: Language, aftermath of heavy drinking and self-harm, frottage, pornography, sexual repression.
Other Pairings: Ron/Hermione (past), Ron/OMC, Harry/Ginny.
Author's Note: This was a fight to write, the longest Harry/Ron I've ever achieved! Thank you to slu64 for her beta and to yenny2206 for her cheerleading skillz. You're both fantastic. Thanks to the mods, and thanks to Harry and Ron -the first slash pairing I ever read, and if I have my way, it'll be the last, too ;)

Ron couldn't help it. His heart gave a little lurch as the marvellous electric box in front of him let out the odd little dinging noise which meant that someone was talking to him.

Forcing a little self control into his blood, he reached for his tea and took a deep sip before moving his right hand towards the mouse and lifting his eyes to the screen.

He had no idea how Hermione had managed to turn him into such an expert on Muggle electrical items, since he had shunned the computer for the first five months after she had put it in his flat. He had shuffled from room to room, throwing shifty looks at it, wondering if it might grow legs and charge at him when his back was turned.

It was only when she had shouted at him and forced him to sit on the little chair with wheels on the legs whilst she showed him how to use it that Ron stopped treating his computer with suspicion. As he clicked on the flashing orange box on what Hermione had told him was the task bar, he realised that he actually rather liked the clever little machine.

He scooted his chair closer to the screen and read the words.

Seekme80 says: There you are. Busy night?

Ron knocked back another mouthful of tea and positioned his fingers, ready to type. Hermione had told him all about how there werre places on the Muggle internet which were specifically for people to meet and chat. Despite the fact that he felt quite desperate logging on anonymously to a room full of strangers, Ron had done so on her direction, frequenting a few different so-called chat rooms. Many a night he had turned the computer off, wide-eyed due to the weird oddities he had encountered.

The first time somebody had asked him 'ASL?', Ron had thought it was a disease. Smiling at his own naivety, he typed back a message.

Flamehead says: Yeah, sorry. Had to work late and then needed to make dinner.

So that he didn't sit waiting impatiently for a reply to his message, Ron clicked to open his browser. He didn't look at many sites, but he had discovered a new-found obsession for checking the Muggle news websites and for one of the pre-installed games in the operating system. He didn't even get his cursor to the news link, however, before the computer beeped at him and the conversation box started to flash again.

Seekme80 says: What did you make?
Flamehead says: Bacon and egg sandwich.
Seekme80 says: That all? Not very much mate.
Flamehead says: Had a big lunch, met my best mate and we went to the local pub. Was good.
Seekme80 says: Sounds great! Snap, actually, I met my best mate for lunch today too. Nice to see him as we never get to spend much time together any more.
Flamehead says: Sappy git.
Seekme80 says: Which one of us harps on about his failed relationships? And weeps over them?
Flamehead says: I've never said I weep!
Seekme80 says: I know, just messing.

Ron didn't know why, but he found himself smiling at the screen. He leant back in his chair and wondered what to say next. This friend had been one of the more normal people he had found in one of the few chat rooms that didn't revolve around cyber sex and pornographic discussions.

Seekme80: You're quiet tonight.
Flamehead: Oh give over, I've only been here for five minutes.
Seekme80: Touchy.

Annoyed, Ron let go of the mouse and stared at the words of their exchange. It was odd, but the person at the other end of those words had come to know him, and his moods, so very well. There was nothing he could say to explain their closeness, or why he trusted this person, but he did. He had never seen a picture, never asked too many questions and never pushed for answers.

Flamehead says: Night. Going to sign off now.
Seekme80 says: Don't be like that. I'm just saying.
Flamehead says: I'm tired. Long day, and I need to do some reading for work tomorrow.

So that they couldn't progress any further, thus keeping him there, Ron clicked sign out and licked his lips. Within another few seconds he had shut the machine down and rolled the chair back, looking down at his socked feet glumly.

He had been so excited to switch on and see what his nameless friend was doing that he wondered what had gone wrong so quickly. As he pushed himself to standing and reached forward to turn the monitor off, Ron knew it was just another day in his pattern. His pattern of getting up, going to work, coming home again, putting the computer on, and talking to a complete stranger.

It both thrilled and depressed him, that anonymity. He turned the light off on the way out of his make-shift office and padded towards his bedroom. The flat was large and far too lonely for just him by himself, but after the stress of the first time, he had never found it in his heart to move. There was also the fact that it was the first home he had ever made for himself -even through his failed relationship with Hermione after the war, they had lived separately; her in the house her parents had bought her, and him in the suburban flat he had bought for himself.

It was his home. His sanctuary. A place where he locked the door and said goodbye to the world, except those whom he permitted in, those through his computer, and the odd family member through the Floo.

He didn't bother to light the candles he kept in his bedroom. As he lived on the edge of Muggle London, his flat was fully electrically fitted, but for where he slept, Ron preferred the soft flickers of candle light. That night, however, he fell straight on his bed without injecting light into them. He simply rolled beneath the duvet and tugged it up to his chin. He stared at the ceiling and yawned. He wondered what his friend was doing now, whether he was still sitting in front of the computer, wanting him to go back online, or whether he had logged off and didn't care about his little strop.

It was a stupid little strop, you idiot.

***

Going to bed, Ron soon found, had not been the brightest idea he had ever had. The way his instant messaging conversation had ended had left him out of sorts, and in the dark the feeling was even worse. He turned onto his side and stared at the opposite wall of his bedroom. A creak from the landing made his eyes flit worriedly to the door before he closed them and moaned at himself. He knew full well that there was nobody in the flat other than himself. He was alone. Completely alone.

And don't you just hate that?

His throat thickened as he remembered, as he often did, the point that although he and Hermione had suffered their problems, her presence in the bed at night had made him feel ridiculously safe. He would never have actively hidden behind her should there have been an intruder, but simply her warmth and smell made him feel safe. Even though he didn't miss their relationship, he certainly missed her protection. It had been that way ever since he was a baby, when he had a legion of older brothers to curl up with, to warm his chilly toes against the shins of. He simply loved to be protected.

Rolling onto his back, his thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the night which ended it all between them, and how his life had never been quite right since. He was under no illusion -they were not meant to be together and if they rekindled their relationship, his life would only grow more difficult. No, Hermione Granger would only make it so much worse, but it didn't stop his memory from flying back, from regretting.

---

May, 2000

“All I want is to know where you are!” Hermione screamed, her hair flying around her face.

She was dressed in the pyjamas she wore when she was down, hoping the old fabric would comfort her back to normality. Her eyes were puffy and her face reddened. Ron knew she had cried herself to sleep, even though he hadn't been there to witness it.

“I needed a drink,” he ground out, trying to remain polite.
“Why? What was so bloody bad that you needed to go and self-medicate in the pub? Again?!”

The accusation in her tone set Ron's teeth on edge and he closed his eyes to draw in a deep, calming breath.

“Who is she?” Hermione demanded suddenly.
“Who's who?” Ron blinked, nonplussed.
“The woman you're seeing!” she shouted at him. “Who you're carrying on with behind my back!”

Staggered, Ron's jaw swung loosely as he thought of what to say. “Hermione, I would never cheat on you.” A sick feeling was curdling his stomach.
“Don't lie to me!” Tears flooded down her face. “There has to be someone -why do you stay out so late if it's not because you're shagging someone?”
“Because I can't face coming home and shagging you!” Ron heard himself roar, the words bursting forth with almost brutal rawness. “You, who doesn't touch me, can't abide the thought of touching my come.”

Hermione stared at him, an angry storm brewing in her body.

“How dare-”
“Don't start,” Ron spat at her. “Don't. You know it's the truth and you know this has been going down the pan for months.”
“And that's all your fault!” she threw contemptuously. “You're never here. We don't talk any more -we don't do anything together.”

With the blame on his shoulders, Ron felt his temper soar past acceptable, manageable levels. His fingers flew for his wand and dragged it out, curled tightly around the thin stick of wood, his only protector. Hermione gaped at him and Ron's stomach roiled as he stared at his outstretched arm, his weapon pointed at the woman he had been in love with since he was eleven.

It clattered to the laminate flooring as sick reared in his throat. He had spent too long in the pub, but even without the alcohol coursing through his veins, he would have been disgusted with himself, with his reactions.

“I can't do this any more,” he said weakly, looking down at his feet.
“Good,” Hermione replied. “Because neither can I.”

Ugly silence settled between them and Ron kept his eyes on his trainers, at the dirty laces and the way the soles were starting to separate from the uppers.

“I think we've both been looking for a way out for a long time,” she continued softly. Ron heard her bare feet padding towards him. “And now we have it. Do you feel sad, Ron? That this is over?”

He finally looked up at her face and saw the tears there, along with something he hadn't expected to find: relief. As soon as he found it present within her, it began to blossom within himself, starting in his turbulent belly and spreading outwards along his veins, until it reached his face and there was nothing else he could do but sadly smile at her.

“Relieved.”
“Me too.”

Before he knew it, she was on him, flinging her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. She was shaking, but then, as she began to stroke his back, Ron realised that he was, too. He put his face in her hair and inhaled the familiar scent of juicy fruits.

“So... what... what now?” he murmured.
“We'll sell this place...” she pulled back and looked at him. “Not right for either one of us to keep it when we both paid for it. We can both start again, somewhere fresh, and make our own homes.”

Ron nodded silently and swallowed.

“I really do love you, Ron,” Hermione whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I always have. But we're not good for one another any more.”
“I know... you don't have to convince me,” Ron promised. “It's... we'll be okay.”

Hermione nodded at him uncertainly before burying her face back into his body, and they continued to hold one another.

---

Yawning behind his hand, Ron tried desperately to stay awake at his desk. His night had been full of tosses and turns and the inability to drift off. When he finally had, at half past five, his alarm clock had rudely blared through the room at seven, totalling him at a measly one and a half hours. The bags beneath his eyes were blatant. Even his boss had commented as he'd stumbled to his office that morning. Luckily nothing much had been dumped on his schedule for the day, and the report he was completing was mostly finished beneath his fallen quill and limp hand. He looked at Harry's empty desk and was glad for his absence. His friend would only have wanted to know why he was so tired, and why sleep had eluded him all night -what was wrong, what they could do to solve it. Ron simply didn't want to talk.

To Harry, that was. There were things he couldn't say to his best friend without wanting to die of shame. These were, of course, things he had hinted at to the person who talked back to him every evening on his computer.

Stupid twat. Shouldn't have flounced off like that.

Ron regretted leaving so abruptly, wondering if it might have made his friend worry or question their odd little friendship. It was so odd in that they had never exchanged pictures, never discussed where they lived or met, but yet Ron knew that the man liked chocolate ice cream best and that once, he'd developed an odd rash on his bum.

Glancing at his watch, Ron saw that it was nearly lunchtime. He didn't fancy any of the food which had come round by owl that morning which highlighted the day's lunch choices at the Ministry canteen.

Might as well go home. Leftover pizza there.

Then, Ron thought happily, he could also pop the computer on, and see if he might be able to make amends with his friend for leaving so suddenly the evening before.

***

“Bollocks!” Ron hissed through his teeth as the little box showed him that there was absolutely nobody online, not even the people he didn't like and least of all the one person he actually wanted to talk to.

As he leant back in his computer chair he realised that he actually felt quite bereft. His cold pizza lay half eaten on the side and his cup of tea was untouched. He'd only been out of work for ten minutes and he was already prepared to go back, not really hungry, nor thirsty, only wanting a bit of conversation to iron out some kinks in his own mind.

This is a new low. Running home at lunch time to talk to your friend...

Ron made a face at himself which he couldn't see and got to his feet. His Auror robes swished around his feet. He picked up his tea to have something to touch. His flat was messy and he had a smile at the thought of his mother's face should she see the state of it. He kicked some pants towards his bedroom door in a half-hearted effort to tidy up and ambled to the window. Below him he could see people on the pavement, stopping to talk, bustling off with bags of shopping or with screaming children in tow. Ron watched a young family making slow progress towards the shops, the little girl done up in a pretty pink coat and her smaller brother being carried in his father's arms. Something about the scene warmed him, which Ron didn't understand. He wasn't one for children, nor playing happy families. He had thought about having a family once upon a time, when he was with Hermione, thinking they might have children together and raise them in a world of safety and relative wealth, so different from his own upbringing, though he had never been in want of love.

That dream had evaporated along with their relationship, and everyone around him was surprised that he didn't lament the fact. Ron, however, was not.

Sighing, he turned away from the window and headed for the bathroom for no reason other than that it was another place to stare at. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and saw the purpled sleep bruises beneath his eyes, and the lines at their corners and at the creases of his lips. He looked old, too old for his years.

Looked worse.

Ron saw his expression sour at the thought of just how much worse he had looked in the past, and took a stomach settling mouthful of tea.

---

September, 2000

“H-Harry... Please let me in mate!”

He banged his fist harder on his best friend's front door and sniffed hard through his nose. He had tried to mop his face up but it had all been for nothing when another wave of sobs had racked his body and he had cried again. He felt the hot slide of blood towards his elbow and shuddered. He had been recklessly stupid, but the worst part was that he knew he would even be able to explain why he had done what he had done to the man he was waking up at three in the morning.

“HARRY!” he bellowed, throwing his head back as the desperation built in his throat. “Let me in, you fucking wanker!”

Finally he saw a light flicker to life on the first floor of Grimmauld Place and held his breath. He felt dirty and not just because of the blood and tears coursing over his skin; he felt dirty on the inside. He had let a complete stranger fuck him and know him intimately. He had been reluctant, but there was no element of rape to the night's proceedings -except in his mind. He felt too violated to form sentences, too lost to be of use to anyone. His cock was sticky and sated in his pants and he longed for a shower to wash the hell off him, to wash away the memories of what he'd done.

The hallway behind the front door of the old London townhouse blazed into life and Ron choked on his breath, throwing his bleeding arms behind his back so that they would not be the first thing that Harry saw. When he came into view, Ron's best friend was naked on the top half, his hair tousled and his glasses missing. He blinked at Ron slowly, then blinked again, and then narrowed his eyes.

“Ron?”
“H-Harry...” A hiccup marred Ron's words. “Please. I need somewhere to... can I stay tonight?”

Harry nodded immediately and stepped back, holding the door open for him. Ron stumbled inside and sagged against the wall. Harry closed the door and set all his protection charms back into motion before turning and surveying him.

“You've been drinking?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to Ron.
“Too much,” Ron confessed, tipping his head back on the wall. “I'm an idiot, Harry.”
“No you're not,” Harry said immediately, with unwavering support.
“I am,” Ron moaned. Without another word he shrugged out of his coat and, biting the inside of his cheek, presented his bloodied and cut forearms to his best friend in the whole wide world.

Harry simply stared at them, his lips parting with surprise. Ron felt his arms begin to shake and, before he knew it, his knees had folded and he was on the floor, with Harry looming above him.

“Stay there,” he said finally, crouching down to Ron's level. “And be quiet. We can sort this out without waking up Gin.”
“Please...” Ron whispered. “I don't want her to know what I...”

His eyes met Harry's and there was a solemn nod from a dark head.

“Why did you do it?” Harry leant closer to peer at the cuts.
“I can't tell you why.”

Harry straightened up, a mix of confusion, anger and fear on his face.

“I'm sorry...” Ron looked up at him. “But I didn't know where else to go.”
“I'm glad you came to me.”

With that, Harry walked past him along the hallway, and disappeared out of sight. Ron hoped it was to get some healing salve. His arms were beginning to throb and the blood loss was starting to make him feel dizzy. He closed his eyes and prayed that the walls would stop spinning.

“Ron?” Harry's voice sounded too foggy to be safe.
“Mm?”
“Come on, upstairs. Shower and bed.”

It wouldn't surprise Ron that, come the morning, he would remember very little of the evening before, although he would understand every ounce of worry in Harry's eyes.

---

Sighing, Ron leant back in his computer chair.

He tapped his index finger over the left button of his mouse and razed his teeth over his lip. He was bored, so incredibly bored that he was considering bed even though it was only half past eight in the evening. On nights such as those, he only had two standbys -the pub, or porn. The internet had given him a world of porn, the dirty porn he was too embarrassed to buy in the plain-looking shop around the back of Knockturn Alley. What he had bought was almost as plain as the shop front compared to what he could find on the internet.

Scratching his chin, Ron went to his favourites and scrolled down to an unmarked folder he kept for when Charlie decided he wanted a nose on the computer. He selected his favourite of the lot and waited for it to load. He bypassed the age disclaimer without care and looked at the latest upload. It looked suitably kinky for his needs while his cursor hovered over the video, ready to click play. He pressed with his finger and then, just as he relaxed, an orange flashing window appeared on the taskbar.

Quickly, he paused the video, which had barely started, and opened the chat window instead.

Seekme80 says: Hey. Things good this evening?
Flamehead says: Yeah it's alright, just had dinner, done some work... was getting a bit bored really.
Seekme80 says: So were you about to do what any man does when they get bored and they're alone?
Flamehead says: And what's that?
Seekme80 says: Watch porn. Or look at porn. Or... think about porn.
Flamehead says: You know me too well.
Seekme80 says: So that's a yes then...
Flamehead says: Of course it's a yes.
Seekme80 says: So what site are you looking at?
Flamehead says: It's just... something I like.
Seekme80 says: Send me a link, I'm alone tonight and could do with a wank.

Ron found himself blushing at his friend's blunt words. None of his 'real life' friends spoke like that with him. Harry was engaged to Ginny and Ron didn't want to hear about a man wanking over his sister. He, despite the kinks displayed on his internet tab, was quite a private soul, and therefore found it awkward talking to his brothers or other friends.

Seekme80 says: Well? Don't leave me high and dry...
Flamehead says: Look. I don't know if it'll be your sort of thing.
Seekme80 says: Try me. Is it weird?
Flamehead says: No, just a bit kinky.
Seekme80 says: I like kinky. My girlfriend... sometimes I make her tie me up.

Ron swallowed on a dry throat at the mention of 'girlfriend'. Seek, as he had come to refer to him in his head, rarely mentioned his partner. He himself had talked of failed relationships, but never mentioned that the partners were men. He feared how the revelation would go down.

He's just someone on the internet. So what if he thinks you're a woolly-woofter who cries like a girl when he gets fucked?

Ron laughed bitterly at his own mind's description.

Flamehead says: I'll send you the link... but you should know that there aren't any tits involved.

There was a long gap before the next message flashed up.

Seekme80 says: Cocks? I don't mind that. In fact I quite like it.

Ron was suddenly hot all over, but oddly he shivered right into the base of his skull. He stared at his friend's words.

Seekme80 says: So are you gay then? Or bi?
Flamehead says: Well... I started off bi but now I think I'm just gay.
Seekme80 says: Why didn't you say anything before? Did you think I'd judge you or something?
Flamehead says: I was afraid you would. I'm always afraid that people will.
Seekme80 says: You are what you are.
Flamehead says: And what are you?
Seekme80 says: My girlfriend looks at a man and says he's beautiful. I look at him and think he's beautiful.
Flamehead says: Do you like boys enough to break things off with your girlfriend?
Seekme80 says: I don't know.

Ron felt very open as he sat there, discussing sexuality with his friend.

Seekme80 says: I'm... I wish you had told me earlier. It must be lonely. I don't think you're the kind of bloke that would have admitted this to your nearest and dearest?
Flamehead says: Nobody knows.
Seekme80 says: And what about your little cutting episode? Does anybody else know about that?
Flamehead says: My best friend. He helped me when I was a wreck.
Seekme80 says: My best friend... he hurt himself too. I don't want to make you feel guilty but... god, when he showed me what he'd done, I just wanted to throttle him dead myself. The way he made me feel. I know he was feeling worse because he did what he did but...

A sad face followed the words and Ron was ashamed that his eyes grew damp as he read them. He sniffed slightly and licked his lips.

Flamehead says: I can't tell anyone else about what I did that night because my family would go mental. They're not the sort that would understand... they would just make my life unbearable. They wouldn't leave me alone.
Seekme80 says: Well, a man doesn't have to tell his mother everything. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, though I wouldn't know.
Flamehead says: Why not?
Seekme80 says: My family died when I was very young... in a car crash.
Flamehead says: I'm sorry to hear that. Did you survive or...
Seekme80 says: I wasn't in the car. I don't remember it.
Flamehead says: But you remember them.
Seekme80 says: How did you know that?
Flamehead says: It's just the sort of thing... I think I would have remembered mine, if they'd gone.
Seekme80 says: Never wish that on yourself. Ever. Do you know what it's like to need to hug your Mum and not have her be there?
Flamehead says: Well... yeah. I'm gay. And there have been times after a bloke shags and leaves and I wake up alone that I just want to tell her what I am, and I can't.
Seekme80 says: Why can't you tell her that you're gay?
Flamehead says: Because I'd just be copying my brother. She expects so much of me, because I'm her baby...

Deflated, Ron slumped in his seat and looked down into his lap. Any excitement he had felt about sharing his favoured porn had been incinerated by their emotional discussion.

Seekme80 says: Fuck, this got miserable quickly. Sorry, mate.
Flamehead says: My fault.
Seekme80 says: If you hurt yourself again, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?
Flamehead says: Why would you want to know?
Seekme80 says: Because I'd miss you if you died.

Ron actually choked and had to cover his hand with his mouth. The thought that somebody he had never met before would miss him should he no longer be there set a torch to his soul, warming him from the inside out. He didn't know what to say.

Seekme80 says: Bet I've scared you off now.
Flamehead says: No, I'm here. Just a bit... I don't know what to say?
Seekme80 says: Don't say anything. Watch some porn with me instead.
Flamehead says: How?
Seekme80 says: I click play, you click play... we wank, knowing the other is wanking. It's a little bit less... lonely.
Flamehead says: Yeah. I like that.

Pulse racing, Ron reached for his mouse again, and unbuttoned the top of his jeans.

---

March, 2001

I've got no idea what I'm doing...

Ron looked desperately around the pub and then back at his pint. He was surrounded by gay men, which was the point of visiting the gay pub, but even still he felt very edgy. From the flamboyant to those who looked straight, he was surrounded by people whom he supposed were exactly like him -but he felt so out of place he kept wanting to edge towards the door.

“Evening.”

Ron looked up and saw a man in front of his booth, staring down at him with smiling eyes. He licked his lips and unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Hello.”
“If you don't mind me saying...” The man slipped into position sitting opposite him and set down his glass of wine. “You look nervous. Scared, even.”
“That's probably because I am?” Ron coughed a little and sipped at his beer for something to do.
“First time in here? Not seen you before.”
“First timer,” Ron said quietly, looking anywhere but at the man whose knee kept brushing his under the table.

Silence settled between them and Ron decided that as soon as he had finished his pint, he was leaving. He was going to zip up his coat, leave the pub, and never look back. He didn't need to find a man when he felt about a foot tall, nerves eating him alive.

“You're getting a lot of attention this evening...”
“Am I?”
“Haven't you noticed?” the man laughed incredulously. “The twink contingency have been staring at you all since you walked in... but you probably didn't mince enough for them.”
“Twink?” Ron asked, nonplussed.
“Skinny, young looking -innocent seeming, if you will.”
“I look like that?” Ron smiled.
“Deliciously so. But there are those that would take it too far.”
“Well... I'm guessing a twink is also a bottom?” Ron raised his eyebrows with his question.
“Typically.”
“Then I'm not one.”
“You're a top?” The man leant back against the booth with a curious smile on his face.
“Yes.”

Ron didn't quite know that, of course. All he knew was that he thought he would prefer to fuck than be fucked. The trip to the pub was meant to garner experience to see whether he was actually right or not.

“Interesting... are you looking for a partner or just some play?”
“Aren't you being a bit...”
“Forward? It's the only way to be in this place -wait too long and someone else will snatch your prize away.”
“That sounds quite perverted...”

They laughed together.

“What's your name?” Ron asked, feeling warmer towards his companion.
“Martin. And you?”
“Ron.”
“Unusual for someone so young.”
“Is it?”
“I think you're a bit unusual... not the usual sort of young man we get in here anyway.”

Ron realised, as the man smiled at him again, that there was something in him which reminded him of Remus Lupin. The werewolf had been lost to the war, but some of his kindly mannerisms were evident in the friendly face opposite him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Ron asked, dragging his confidence out of his backside and patting his pocket for his wallet.

***

The thump of his back hitting the toilet wall masked Ron's grunt of pain. Martin's lips were all over his, kissing him wetly as his fingers wandered. One drink had turned into four drinks, and Martin had supplied four of his own. With his head swimming, Ron tried to pinpoint the last time that he had been so drunk, and couldn't.

“Fuck!” he gasped, as a large hand palmed the bulge in his jeans. “I...”
“Shh...” Martin trailed drier kisses down the side of his neck.
“No I just... I don't want to... in a toilet... gross...”

Martin pulled back, his lips red and glistening with spit. He frowned and put his hand on Ron's shoulder.

“You really aren't the type of usual we get in here.”
“I'm not very... uh... normal,” Ron smiled, and then blushed.
“I'm very glad.” Martin smiled back at him, and then took his hand. “Come back to mine?”
“Okay.”

---

“Here you go!” Dean put Ron's pint in front of him and slapped him on the shoulder. “How many weeks have I owed you this?”
“Since the last time we all went out on the piss,” Ron grinned, picking it up and sipping from it. “Oh god, Shay's nearly on the table already and it's only seven.”
“Sign of a good night,” Harry pointed out from the other side of their table.

The pub was busy around them and even though he was tired, Ron was quite comfortable sitting there with his friends. It was so rare that they managed to all get together on a Saturday night that it felt quite special.

“So, who has a life update?” Neville asked through a mouthful of peanuts. “Anyone got anything good going on?”
“Work's good,” Harry and Ron answered together, and then grinned at one another.
“Slowing down,” Harry added.
“And less cold nights in the middle of fucking nowhere,” Ron toasted them all with his pint glass.
“Less cold nights in a tent wanking, you mean?” Dean scoffed.
“That's a loss though,” Ron made a face, and then drank some more beer.

“I got an ace commission the other day,” Dean continued. “New portrait of some old codger for the corridor at the hospital. Invented something to get rid of genital warts.”
“You're lying!” Neville laughed. “Oh god, the thought of...”
“Genital warts?” Ron asked, amused.
“Shut up!” Neville covered his ears. “Anyway. I have news.”
“Spit it out then,” Seamus cheered, re-joining them.
“I asked Hannah to marry me.”

Harry spat out the mouthful of beer he had just taken and showered them all in his spray.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, wiping his lips, and then sniggered into his hands.

Ron watched him, noting the high flush of his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes.

“We're getting married,” Neville repeated. “Nothing fancy... we can't afford much but... Gran was really happy.”
“She already knitting baby boots?” Ron asked sympathetically. “Mum did that to Bill. From the date of the engagement... when she actually accepted it, she was knitting a reserve of baby clothes.”
“I dread to think,” Neville shuddered. “Hey, Ron, that guy over there is looking at you a lot.”

Ron turned in his seat and nearly dropped his drink. Martin's face lit up as their eyes met, and he waved. Panicked, Ron propelled out of his seat.

“I'll be back in a minute. Congratulations, Nev. Really... well done...”

He knew he sounded distant, but his mind was racing. There was no way he could handle his friends and a past secret lover being in the same building, let alone the same room. His heart thumped in his chest and his shirt was suddenly too tight, sticking to every inch of his torso and restricting him.

He hadn't seen Martin in a few months, and they hadn't slept together for almost a year. There had never been a romantic attachment on Ron's behalf, but there had been on Martin's. Even Ron had been forced to wake up and see that the man was in love with him and hoping for much more than he was willing or able to give. It wasn't that the man was unlovable, far from it -because he was lovely. There was no other word for him. He was courteous, and kind, and very warm. He held doors open for others. Ron knew he could have done far worse.

But a relationship would have meant admitting it to everyone else.

Weaving his way around the other punters, Ron swallowed hard and prepared himself.

“Ron, hi. Wow, you're looking great!” Martin said, leaning towards him.
“Don't, my friends are here,” Ron whispered.

Hazel eyes settled on him and then narrowed. “How long are you going to hide it from everyone, Ron? Don't you think that they probably already know?”
“Nobody knows,” Ron said flatly.
“Though last time we met, you were thinking about telling your little internet friend...” Martin laughed, and drank a mouthful of wine. “Do you still talk to him?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Ron looked down at his boots.
“When did you tell him?”
“Last week.” Ron made a face and then laughed.

“Well... I don't want to keep you from your friends. It's a shame we couldn't have met somewhere less busy though, when you weren't ashamed to be yourself.”
“I'm not ashamed to be myself,” Ron muttered.
“And the minute you stop kidding yourself about that, the better,” Martin advised him, giving him a grim smile and then turning back to his company.

Ron stared dumbly at his back for a moment before knocking back the last of his pint, dumping the glass on the nearest table, and leaving the pub.

***

“What happened to you last night?” Harry yawned through his fingers as he stood at the kettle.

They were both at the Burrow for Sunday lunch, and Ron felt like death. He had left the pub after talking with Martin and headed straight home, ignoring the Floo when it rang. He had nursed a bottle of firewhiskey on the settee until his body couldn't take any more, and slept where he passed out. He absent-mindedly reached up to rub the kink in his neck, earned by his awkward position on the sofa.

“I felt a bit sick, went outside for some air,” Ron lied, from where he was peeling potatoes by hand for his mother. “And then that huge group came in and I just couldn't be arsed fighting through them. Went home.”
“We tried Flooing you but you didn't answer?”
“Must have been asleep, mate.” Ron shrugged. “Good night all round though, yeah?”
“Yeah. I can't believe it about Neville, really made up for him.”
“Me too.” Ron smiled and ignored his aching chest.

It wasn't that he was jealous. Much. He was pleased for Neville, whom Ron had always pitied after learning the truth about his parents. Hannah Abbott was a perfect match for him -sweet and shy, though louder than Neville in personality. They were happy together, and Ron was happy that they felt confident in taking the next step in their relationship.

You have nobody to take steps with.

Martin's face flashed up in front of him and Ron shook his head to get rid of it. As if he could see Ron's thoughts, Harry's next question turned his stomach.

“Ron?”
“Mm?”
“Who was that guy you were talking to at the bar?”
“Just... someone I know.” He focussed hard on the potato in his fingers. “From that course I had to go on for work, remember?”

If there was one thing that would shut Harry up, it was the mention of the confidence and assertiveness course that the Auror Department had requested that Ron attend. It had been a sore point between them since it happened, purely because Ron was too embarrassed to think about the fact that his superiors in the department thought he was weak, and Harry was too embarrassed to ask him about his feelings on the matter.

“It was a Muggle one, remember?” he blundered on. “Something about their psychiatry being better than what we have. More positive. Better results.”
“You looked pretty unhappy to see him...” Harry picked up a tea towel, folded it, and put it back down again.
“Well... brings back bad memories, you know...” Ron injected some emotion into his voice and prayed it would work.
“Okay. Fair enough.”

Harry's retreating footsteps told Ron that he had won. He celebrated by throwing the potato in the cooking pot with extra vigour.

***
“It must have been some night last night,” Charlie commented, looking between Harry and Ron sprawled at opposite ends of the sofa. “You're both too quiet.”
“Don't knock it,” George advised from the floor, where he sat reading the paper. “Enjoy the peace and quiet.”
“Well I was just wondering if the only person in this family who’s a match for me on a chessboard wanted a game, is all...”

Ron waited until his second eldest brother had finished ruffling his hair to answer.

“I can't be arsed, Charlie.”
“Because you know you'll lose?” Charlie bartered in response.
“No, because I can't be bothered to win again,” Ron yawned.

And I really want to go home and catch up with Seek for a bit.

He assumed that he should have felt guilty about wanting to leave his own flesh and blood to go and talk to a stranger on the internet, but Ron had long since given up feeling anything of the sort. In any case, his flat was warm and peaceful, as opposed to the bedlam currently playing out in his parents' house.

“Anyway... have they decided whether Vic has got Dragonpox yet or is it, as we all said, just a bit of a rash?” Ron asked, looking up at Charlie.
“One day those'll be your brats, Ronniekins.” Charlie grinned. “And then you can turn into an insane parent like Bill has and we can all laugh at you.”
“It must be so nice to be gay,” George said dreamily from the floor. “You're never going to turn into a madman wondering if your baby's gurgle means it might have a rare form of a previously unheard of disease.”

Charlie snorted and threw himself down on the rug in front of the fire. “Well, it does help.”

Ron swallowed and looked away, eager to move the topic on or not participate in the conversation. He loved his niece, as sweet and pretty as she was, but he couldn't deny that she represented, for him, everything that he might never have, for the sacrifice of his sexuality, which it didn't seem like he would ever be able to admit. The thought depressed him immensely, and with his belly full from his mother's cooking, he wanted to crawl into bed and not wake up until it was time to go to work the next morning.

“It's a good thing he can't reproduce though.” George made a face. “Nobody needs spawn of a man whose feet stink liking rotting meat.”

Ron enjoyed the distraction of watching Charlie trying to shove his feet into George's personal space, and even laughed at the commotion until their mother popped her head around the door and asked them to keep the noise down-

“Because the baby is sleeping,” all four of them answered together.

Annoyed, their mother stalked off and Ron, Harry, Charlie and George broke into silent snickers.

“Shh, you're breathing too loud, you'll wake the baby,” Charlie whispered loudly at Harry, who snorted and clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Bad Harry! Feet treatment, now!” George clicked his fingers and the noise started again.

Ron wondered if, when together, any of them might start acting their ages. Charlie was scrabbling across the floor like Ron could remember him doing at twelve. George had stolen a sock and was currently beating Charlie with it. Harry was randomly poking Charlie in the ribs and pretending he was doing nothing. Ron sat on the sofa and watched them.

“KEEP IT DOWN!” their mother bellowed from the kitchen, and they all laughed again.

---

October, 2001

Ron cuddled Dominique close to his chest, lifting her slightly so he could sniff the powdery scent on her bald little head. She smelt of warmth. The baby gurgled at him and her eyes seemed to follow him.

He hadn't spent any time alone with his second niece until that moment. Ron looked into the exact replicas of his brother's eyes and smiled.

“Hello gorgeous,” he whispered, bending his head to press a kiss to her nose. “Aren't you pretty?”

He jostled her slightly in his arms and earned a happy gurgle in response.

“I'm your Uncle Ron. Yes I am,” he whispered playfully. “The last uncle. The only uncle who'll understand when you have a little sister and you feel outdone by her.”
“You know she can't actually understand you, right?” Charlie's voice cut through the peace and Ron jumped. “She doesn't understand anything yet?”
“Shut up,” Ron muttered, turning his attention back to Dominique. “Everyone talks to her.”
“Sounded more like you were talking to yourself,” Charlie said, leaning against the wall. “You seem a bit down. Is everything alright?”

No.

Ron nodded. “I'm fine. Just...”
“A bit misty eyed because you're an uncle again?” Charlie asked wisely.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” He smiled. “Gets you like that. You always know that the eldest is going to do everything first... but when he actually does...again... she's so tiny, and perfect. Kinda takes your breath away. And I'm a poof.”
“Your Uncle Charlie likes boys,” Ron said to Dominique secretively. “And sometimes, he likes more than one boy.”
“And even better, sometimes he likes men,” Charlie quipped, rolling his eyes.
“Sometimes men and boys together,” Ron carried on.
“And your Uncle Ronnie is completely asexual.”
“Shurrup.” Ron hid his face in the baby's to hide his hurt.

“But your Uncle Ronnie is always good for a cuddle... even when he was a baby, he was good at that.”
“What are you two doing with my daughter?” Bill's suspicious voice rang out, and Ron turned.

Bill looked at him cradling her and his face relaxed into a smile.

“Looks good on you.” He nodded in Ron's direction. “Like you're born to it.”

Ron gently laid her back down and shrugged. “She's beautiful, Bill. Congratulations.”

“I know. And thanks.”

Bill's arm flung around Ron's shoulders and pulled him close. He jerked as Charlie was pulled into the same strangle hold on the opposite side.

“I love you two,” Bill said.
“Oh Godric, he's off. Bail out, Ron, the sentimental blubbering is coming next,” Charlie whispered.
“Git,” Bill said calmly.

Ron tried to laugh as he pulled away, but the hard lump in his throat made it hard, along with the fact that his jealousy was eating him alive.

---

Ron flexed his fingers and winced at the cramp in his tendons. Four pages of parchment of an Auror raid report were in front of him, the last with the ink still slightly shining. He blew on it, not really caring if it smudged or not -the most galling part about filling in paperwork after a mission was that it was rarely ever read. He was often tempted to skip the whole process, but his luck just went that should he not bother, someone would desperately need his papers for an unheard of reason.

“Should have gone and worked with George forever,” he muttered beneath his breath.

He picked his mug up only to find it bone dry and huffed at it. He was too tired to make the long slog to the kitchen to make another and he had no juice to summon.

“Knew there was something I had to do on the way home from work... I have got to stop talking to myself.”

Laughing, Ron rubbed at his eyes and pressed his fingertips inward, causing redness to flare behind his eyelids and the pressure was delicious. His moment of peace, however, was interrupted by the ding of his instant messenger on the computer in front of him, which he had left on while he worked in the hope that he would be distracted.

“Bit fucking late,” he murmured, dropping one hand to his mouse and opening the window.

Seekme80 says: You there? Says you're idle.
Flamehead says: I am idle, but not in the way they mean.
Seekme80 says: Ha.
Flamehead says: What's up?

There was no immediate reply and Ron set himself to gathering up his completed paperwork and tucking it into his work back for the next morning. When he had tidied away his quill and ink too, there was still no answer, and he frowned at the screen. It wasn't like his chatty friend to be so metaphorically tongue-tied.

Flamehead says: I know you're there.
Seekme80 says: I know you know I'm here.
Flamehead says: Well why aren't you talking then? Normally I couldn't shut you up if I wanted.
Seekme80 says: Not really in the mood for talking.
Flamehead says: Then why did you message?

Annoyance made him scowl and Ron waited for a reply.

Seekme80 says: I just wanted to know if you were there or not.
Flamehead says: Why, if you didn't actually want to talk to me?
Seekme80 says: Because I needed to know that I'm not alone tonight.
Flamehead says: Will you just stop pissing around and tell me what's wrong? How can I help if I don't know what's wrong?
Seekme80 says: I don't need your help.
Flamehead says: I've heard that a thousand times. My best mate is the king of pretending he doesn't need help and he nearly always does. It's a defence mechanism and I bet you know that.
Seekme80 says: I do.
Flamehead says: Then tell me what's wrong and have done with it?

He leant back in his chair and waited to see how his blunt request would be taken. A few minutes past and, though he would never admit it to anybody that asked, Ron's worry began to build. He was worried over somebody that he had never met, and only talked to on the Muggle internet. He thought he might be insane.

Seekme80 says: I think that my fiancée and I are going to call it a day.
Flamehead says: Your fiancée? I thought you were just boyfriend and girlfriend?
Seekme80 says: We've been engaged for a few years. But it's just not... we fight all the time. And don't tell me to work through it because I've been doing that for the past year and it's still fucking shit.
Flamehead says: You have to do what's right for you.
Seekme80 says: You're not calling me a prick for leaving her?
Seekme80 says: Lots of men would.
Seekme80 says: Including me.
Flamehead says: Well, you're my mate, and I just think if you're that unhappy, you should break things off and take some time to yourself.
Seekme80 says: What if she was your sister, how would you react then?

Ron considered the question; if Harry left Ginny, he would probably see red, lose all sense of friendship and thoroughly deck him.

Flamehead says: I'd deck you.
Seekme80 says: Exactly.
Flamehead says: But she's not my sister, and you've got no kids or commitments.
Seekme80 says: I know I just feel... really shit about this. I love her.
Flamehead says: Of course you do. I loved my girlfriend, too, but one day I found myself nearly hitting her.

Ron substituted his wand for his hand in the story. Often, it was hard not to be too honest with his friend.

Flamehead says: And then I knew that we had to end it. Because I never wanted to hurt her and I would of, if we'd continued.
Seekme80 says: She says I'm not myself any more.

He paused, with his fingers hovering over the keys. Ron wasn't quite sure what to say.

Flamehead says: Look, do you want to meet up for a pint and discuss this in person?

He felt an idiot from the minute he pressed return. All he knew was that his friend lived in the same city as him, but they had never before suggested meeting and he wasn't even sure that he really wanted to. All the same, however, he had typed the words, and now he was hanging in cyberspace, waiting for a reply. He knew he would be devastated if the answer was negative.

Seekme80 says: Meet me at the entrance to Euston Square Underground in an hour?
Flamehead says: I'll be there.

Jumping out of his seat, Ron hurriedly shut down the computer and ran his fingers through his hair. He stared down at his clothes and wondered what he should put on. He was wearing old jogging bottoms and an over-sized Weasley jumper, and no socks. He strode through to his bedroom and pulled open his wardrobe, knowing he would find very little there to satisfy him.

Grumbling to himself, he selected a pair of scruffy jeans and a new jumper and changed, trying to slow himself down as he remembered he had an hour to make his way to the station, and with apparition it wouldn't take him more than thirty seconds to reach his destination. He looked over his appearance in the mirror and made a face at himself. He was pale, with large purpled circles beneath his eyes. His hair was on end from all the times he'd run his fingers through it during his report writing.

This is it.

Ron didn't even know how much expectation he'd placed on the moment, until it arrived.

***

He pulled his coat tighter around his body and leant back against the wall. Ron didn't know why he had headed there so early. He was impossibly cold and the traffic roaring up and down the Euston Road didn't help. The noise deafened him. A bus stormed up the road and blew his hair about the face.

Ron hated London, even though he lived there. It was too impersonal after his west country upbringing, where, even though they were 'different', he knew the names of the villagers and the woman in the bakery used to give him free iced buns when he was little. Of course, they had never been as good as his mum's, but the generosity was kind all the same.

He avoided looking at his watch to avoid acknowledging the fact that an hour had been and gone. He had been waiting for too long, his feet were numb. Every so often people appeared at the top of the Underground stairs, the product of passing trains. Ron didn't like to admit just how much like his father he was becoming, but the network of tube trains fascinated him, the way that the metal beasts could hurtle through the tunnels, and to the Muggles, it was the best means of transport they had.

A group of drunks on the other side of the wide road suddenly hollered and made him jump. Ron tucked into himself even more and swallowed. He was well used to lying, but not very often to himself. He knew the fact that his friend was nearly an hour late meant that he was likely not coming, but admitting the fact was harder than Ron thought it might be.

“He agreed,” he muttered to himself. “Why isn't he here?”

With a final glance towards the Underground entrance, where the steps were once again devoid of human life, he turned to his left and headed along the pavement. He couldn't resist looking over his shoulder every now and then the further away he drifted. He reached the traffic lights and reached out for the pedestrian crossing button. He waited for the little green man to appear to let him know it was safe to cross. He had used it many a time; it was a notoriously dangerous crossing. People dodged across it, amongst the deadly traffic, hauling massive suitcases as they rushed for trains in the mainline station. Ron walked numbly across the road, following his feet. He walked through the courtyard, sniffing the just-closed forecourt food concessions. The automatic doors slid effortlessly open for him as he took his first steps into the station. So late at night it was mostly deserted. There was a group of travellers huddled with their suitcases looking up at the announcement boards, obsessively waiting for their platform number. A list of trains flashed in horrific orange across the screens. Ron read the names with very little interest. He moved towards the back of the stations, noting how the air had begun to stale. He stood at the top of a slipway down to one of the platforms, where a dirty beast of a train stood. The cleaning crew were working on it.

Ron walked down the incline and sniffed the air again. It smelt foreign, unclean and alien. He had never caught a train in his life. He had never felt the need.

---

December, 2001

“Why did you get in touch?” Martin asked quietly, turning to rest his head on his arms in Ron's direction.
“Because seeing you in the pub made me want you,” Ron answered simply.
“Even though you broke it off for a reason? And that was months ago?” the older man laughed.
“Even so.”

Ron stared up at the ceiling and breathed in. His body felt relaxed. Of course Martin had been willing to give him the sex that he craved. His body felt so peaceful he wondered how he had ever coped without the intimacy the man gave him.

“But your opinion hasn't changed. No relationship, because you won't tell your nearest and dearest?”
“I'm sorry.”
“It doesn't hurt me any more. All that hurts is watching you lie to yourself, Ron.”
“I'm not lying to myself, I'm lying to everyone else,” he corrected. “There's a difference. I know what I am. What I'll always be.”
“So why would it be such a disaster for them to know the same?

Ron didn't reply, but smiled at the hand which came up to stroke his belly.

“I'm just not ready for them to know.”
“Because you haven't accepted it yourself.”
“Martin, I love you and everything, but shut the fuck up.”
“You love me? He asked, surprised.
“Not in the way you want... but in the way which means something to me.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Martin laughed dryly and fell silent.

“It's complicated,” Ron said finally.
“I know it is. All I want is for you to be safe, and for you to be happy. I can't bring you that happiness, so... I just wish you could share yourself with others.”
“I plan to... just not yet.”

There was a loud sigh and then Martin rolled closer to him. A warm palm landed on Ron's cheek and turned his face towards the older man.

“If they love you, they'll accept you, either way. They won't see you as different. You'll still be Ron. The brother, son and friend they love. Not every coming out is a horror story. Mine wasn't, and I grew up with a conservative father, an old-fashioned mother and a vanilla sister. They loved me, and they stuck by me.”

He was kissed, so softly that his heart almost screamed at the tenderness.

“I won't be here for you forever, Ron. I love you too, but you can't give me what I need... so... there's another man, and he's kind, and beautiful. And he loves me the way that I love you. So...”
“Last time, yeah?”

Ron had been mortified the night that Martin had been in the same pub as his friends. Since then, however, the man had been on his mind a lot. Now it was apparently finally over between them.

“Thanks, Martin. This has been great.”

---

From the dingy London train station, Ron had wandered. All the way to Charing Cross, it seemed. He stood in front of the Leaky Cauldron front door and swallowed, numb to his very core and wondering if he should just go home. Alcohol seemed so inviting after his disappointment, though, that he was propelled into opening the pub door. Inside the fire was roaring and the candles were welcoming. He headed straight for the bar and ordered his usual for a bad day, not bothering to enter conversation with Tom's niece, who had been working the bar more often than not of late, making up for his old age.

Ron looked about at the other patrons and noticed a dark head in the corner, attached to a slumped body.

Harry.

He paid for his drink and made his way to where his friend was sitting.

“Hey,” he said softly, ducking his head to try and catch Harry's eye.
“Ron?” Harry peered at him.

Ron only then noticed all the glasses surrounding the wizard and sat down in alarm.

“You alright, Harry?”
“Yeah, fine. Jus' pissed. Fine. You?”
“Got stood up by a friend,” Ron muttered, knocking back some of his drink.
“What idiot would do that?” Harry frowned.

Ron shrugged. They drank silently together until they reached the end of their glasses, and then Harry began making eyes at the bar again.

“Maybe you've had enough?” Ron asked tactfully, noticing Harry's loose movements and lack of facial expression.
“Had more than enough.” Harry shrugged and nearly fell off his chair. “But that doesn't mean I have to stop.”
“Want to come home with me?” Ron suggested. “So Ginny doesn't see you in this state?”

He knew that Harry returning home drunk was a bone of contention between his sister and his best friend. Something in Harry's eyes flashed and Ron frowned at him.

“Everything alright?”
“Just drunk,” Harry repeated. “Sit down. Drink.”

Ron did as Harry bade him and put his glass to his lips. It surprised him that he was able to take the whole measure of firewhiskey in one go, but he did, knocking it back with a single flip of his wrist. Harry watched him down it.

“Another?” he slurred.
“I think we should get you-”

Harry had already hopped off his stool, however, and was meandering drunkenly towards the bar. The pretty witch laughed at him and Harry laughed back at her, and before Ron knew it the brunet was walking back to him clutching two drinks.

“What is it?” Ron asked apprehensively, looking at the odd colour in the glass.
“This, my friend, is a Firebomb.” Harry pushed the glass over the sticky table at him. “It's firewhiskey and a Muggle drink called Jägermeister and some weird sports energy drink thing... Cheers!”

Harry toasted him with the glass and then began to glug at its contents. Tentatively, Ron sipped at the concoction, and when the heat hit the back of his throat, he knew he was in for a very, very long night.

***
By the time that Ron staggered into his flat, supporting Harry with every last ounce of strength that he possessed, he wasn't even thinking about the fact that a friend he had trusted had bailed on him. He was only thinking about where he would dump his best friend to sleep. He had no spare room and his settee was ridiculously uncomfortable.

“Bed!” Harry declared haplessly, stumbling in the direction of Ron's bedroom.
“No, that's mine.” Ron tried in vain to pull Harry back but his friend was too quick and he was too pissed to catch him.

Harry barged through his bedroom door kicking his boots off as he went. Ron heard following thumps as he continued to strip off.

“Harry, gerroff my bed,” he moaned, following,

There was no point in begging because Harry flopped face first onto his bed and happily moaned. Ron toed out of his own shoes and pulled a face at the floor. He could use a cushioning charm, but he had never been the best at them, and the sleep he'd achieve would never be as good as that earned in his actual bed.

Gingerly, Ron sat down on the edge. Harry immediately rolled onto his side and made space for him. Ron unbuttoned his shirt and eased it from his shoulders. He wriggled out of his jeans and yanked his pyjama bottoms out from under his arse. When he was ready to lie down, he did so carefully, making sure not to touch Harry in anyway.

He wouldn't be lying here if he knew you were gay.

Ron instantly felt guilty, and was drunk enough to open his mouth. “Harry-”
“Mm?”

Ron froze.

“Night, Harry.”
“Nanight.” Harry's breath was hot over his cheek and Ron held his breath as his skinny, short best friend shuffled closer and, in a move which made his heart thud, cuddled into Ron's side.
“Uh-”
“Shh,” Harry commanded. “Sleep now. Talk later.”

Ron couldn't help but enjoy the weight of Harry's head as it came to rest on his shoulder. The heaviness told him that Harry was already mostly asleep. A scent curled into his nostrils; a scent that was quintessentially Harry. Fresh grass and an odd waft of masculine cologne, even though he knew his friend had never owned a bottle in his life.

“Night, Harry,” he whispered.

---

January, 2002

“Sweetheart.”

Ron didn't like the sound of his mother's tone.

“Mum?” he asked slowly, looking in her direction.

Ron put up with her weekly visits to her flat, where she insisted on cleaning every single surface and stocking up his cupboards. He was comfortably full from the lunch she had suggested they go out for, which Ron had insisted on paying for, and darkness was falling outside the flat windows.

“I want to talk to you about something?”
“Like what?” Ron asked warily.
“I'm worried about you.”
“Why?” He resolutely folded up his paper and leant forward to put it on the coffee table. He sensed he needed his full wits about him for the following conversation.
“You live all alone here... your brothers tell me you've been very quiet recently.”
“Well I can't be a party animal forever,” Ron joked with a shrug. “I've got a lot of work on at the minute.”
“Have you met anyone recently?” she continued, sitting down next to him.
“No.”
“Are you even looking?”
“Not really,” Ron answered. “Why, is that a problem?”
“No, it isn't... but I wonder if this is best for you. You always seem so much happier when you're with somebody. Even those you wouldn't let me meet.”

Ron looked at the fire to hide his face. His mother was talking about the men he had been with whom he had never detailed to his family.

“I haven't got time at the minute,” Ron lied.
“You spent a Saturday with your mum,” she pointed out. “Don't you think that's quite telling?”

He stayed quiet, looking at his knees. One of her hands came into his sight and its warmth sank through his jeans.

“I just want you to be happy.”
“You mean settled,” Ron corrected. “Because all the others are, even George, and we all know he's a basket case. If the loopy brother can get married, why can't I, right?”
“Ron, I just care about you. I want you to be-”
“Happy, I know, but why should a partner make me happy?”
“Someone to share your ups and downs with.”
“I have plenty of friends to do that with.”

Oddly, his mother closed her mouth and looked down at her lap. “All right. As long as you promise me that if anything was the matter, you would come to me? If you wanted to talk... about anything, you know I would listen? Accept anything you have to tell me?”

She stared at him intently.

She's guessed.

“I'm fine,” Ron lied in a tight voice. “I promise.”

---

Flamehead says: Why didn't you show last week?

He waited for a reply, drumming his fingers on the desk. It had taken him a week to drum up the nerve to be able to message and ask why. He had been online, and Seek had been online, and he had hoped that an apology would have been forthcoming so he didn't have to ask for it. There had been no such luck.

Seekme80 says: I got waylaid.
Flamehead says: By what?
Seekme80 says: I don't want to talk about it, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry.
Flamehead says: I waited for ages.
Seekme80 says: Why'd you do that?
Flamehead says: I thought you needed a friend.
Flamehead says: So why did you cop out?

Ron waited for five minutes before the window changed to say that Seekme80 had signed out.

“You fucking bastard,” he said in disbelief, gawping at the screen. “What the hell? I tell you everything about me and then when the going gets rough you won't talk to me.”

He chewed angrily at the inside of his cheek and, instead of wondering why he felt so stung and trying to make sense of his emotions, he opened a browser window and headed to his emails. Only in the very beginning had he and Seek communicated by email, and he knew the email address was stored there. He was typing before he knew it.

'What the fuck was that about? Where do you get off hinting that something's wrong and then not telling me about when I obviously care about you? I was really worried the other night when you didn't turn up -do you know what it's like to wander around London like that? I waited for an hour. I don't know why but at the minute, but you're the thing I look forward to most in my day. Talking to you is like a breath of fresh air -I'm honest, I'm free to say what I want because you know everything. But now you're being cagey and it makes me feel unsafe. I know you're going through a rough time and I thought we could talk to each other about shit like that. I've had enough. If you want to keep chatting to me I need to meet you. Anonymity isn't enough for me any more now you know everything about me. Take it or leave it.'

Ron had added a date and time on the end of the email and click send before his head had even stopped spinning. The second he had released the button, however, he regretted his words. In a fluid movement he dropped his head down onto his desk and began banging his forehead upon it, cursing himself at the same time.

He continued until white sparks exploded behind his closed eyelids and then he blearily looked at his computer screen.

“It's got to go,” he murmured at himself.

He didn't understand how he had become so wrapped up in a fake little world that he had found for himself.

Time to re-join the real world. And grow a pair.

His insides were roiling with self-hatred. There was nothing that anybody could have said to make him respect himself at that moment. He felt sick as he made to shut down the computer -he didn't want to see the reply to the email he had just sent. When the screen finally faded to black he released a small breath of relief, before rising to his feet. He let his fingers pull at cables without paying attention to what he was actually pulling. He summoned the box, wisely kept, and enlarged it to its original size. Without much care he began piling the computer components into it, struggling somewhat with the heavy tower and bulky monitor. When it was all in he stepped back and wiped his forehead. His desk looked oddly empty.

Empty for the better.

Swallowing, Ron yanked open his desk draw and pulled out his roll of Spellotape. Methodically he worked, sealing away the beast which had kept him locked within his own flat for months. There was no sense of achievement, however, when he laid the last layer of clear film. His secrets and feelings could not be locked within the box, as much as he would have liked them to have been. Chucking the roll on the desk, Ron slumped back into the computer chair and let it twist beneath him until he faced the doorway.

Along with his desk, his flat, and thus his life, was starkly empty, and he didn't know what to do with himself.

---

February, 2002

“What's the matter with you?”

Ron hastily shovelled food into his mouth to make it look like he was enjoying the meal they'd paid for, and tried not to look guilty as he looked up at his brother.

“Don't give me that look, and don't start eating to cover up the fact you've got a plateful,” George said, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What's the matter with you, Ron?”

Chewing through his mouthful of sweet and sour pork, Ron thought about how best to answer him. There were a million and one things that could spill from the end of his tongue at that moment -I'm gay, I'm lonely, I'm mourning the loss of a friend I've never met, I don't know what to do with myself now I've given him up, I want him back...

George kicked his foot under the table and continued to stare.

“You don't get it, do you?” George sighed finally, setting down his own fork and reaching for his wine.

Technically, George wasn't meant to drink wine. The rest of their family would have gone mad if they'd seen him drinking, but Ron had long since given up holding his older brother back. The alcohol mixed badly with his medication, the potions which worked hard to keep George George, even months after Fred's death. They were out for dinner, like they went out every month, and Ron had ordered the usual bottle of wine for the table because, in truth, he needed it, and he damn well knew that George needed it too.

“The more you act like this, the aloof you seem and the more you try to hide what's wrong with you, the harder people try to find out what it is?” A lopsided smile twisted George's face.

Ron looked at him, at the long hair which had been grown cover the ugly scarred hole in the side of his head, and the pale skin with diminished freckles, the sad eyes and premature lines which surrounded them. George would know something about loneliness and desperation, which was exactly why Ron had never burdened him with tales of his own.

“All mum wants to know is that you're okay,” George went on, fortifying himself with another sip of wine. “That's all we all want to know.”
“But why do you care?” Ron asked earnestly. “You've always been happy to let me make my own mistakes in the past.”
“Yeah, but you weren't as fucking miserable in the past, either,” George pointed out, stabbing the wine glass in his direction. “You've changed over the last two years. Everyone but you seems to be able to see that.”
“I know I've changed.” Ron shrugged. “But people do that when they get older. Part of life or so Bill always says.”
“Bill talks out of his arse.” George snorted with laughter and shot Ron a wink. “But really, Ron, you go on for this much longer there'll be a planned intervention.”
“For what, not having a girlfriend?” Ron asked sulkily.
“For not telling us what's going on in your head. Makes you wish old Snape was around, he could have found out what was wrong with you.”

The thought of someone sliding into his head and finding out all his secrets caused a shiver to creep into the base of his skull, and Ron fought off the jerk of his head which would normally have followed. It wasn't that they would find anything particularly terrifying -no murderous thoughts, no debauched sexual desires; they would simply be invading his privacy, and Ron, of all things, had become extremely private.

“I remember a time when anything that happened to you, you'd tell someone.” George leant back in his chair, his eyes firmly fixed on Ron. “When you were a kid, Fred'd do something to you and you'd run and tell Mum, even when it was something nice.”
“You could never be too careful with him, though,” Ron remembered. “He liked to trick me.”
“Well you were an easy target, and you always cried. Always got so wound up. You were our toy, in a way.”
“Nice.” Ron made a face and drank some of his wine.
“But we loved you,” George continued. “Always loved you, and when we knew we'd gone too far, we always made up for it.”

Ron looked away, remembering tender hugs and shared sweets, the softer side of the terrible twins which rarely ever saw the light of day.

“I know you did.” He smiled at George and picked up his fork again. “But things are different now. You can't make it better with a hug and a stolen custard cream.”

“I could try.”

Ron laughed and ate some rice, surprised that he felt better for their talk, even though nothing had been revealed. He simply felt lighter for talking, for knowing that, despite his secrecy, someone cared.

“You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if there was something you really needed to say? To talk about?”

Ron frowned, noticing George's near-identical choice of words to their Mother's.

“Have you been talking to mum?” he asked thickly, through his mouthful of rice.
“No,” George said, too innocently. “Why would I do that? Why would I talk about you behind your back?”

He grimaced and Ron sighed, looking down at his plate.

“George, leave it.”

“Alright. But, when shit hits the fan and you spit out whatever it is you're hiding, Ronnie, don't you dare throw it back in my face that I wasn't there for you.”

Upset that George thought he had the potential to be so callous, Ron concentrated on his food, and batting away the burning which had sprung up in his throat.

---

“Harry?”

From his position low in the fire, Ron didn't have to look far to find Harry. He was sitting curled up on the sofa, looking at his own knees.

“Hey,” Harry said softly, looking down at him. “Alright?”
“I need to get out,” Ron said firmly, confidently, trying to keep the shake out of his tone. “I can't sit here on my own any more. I need to go to the pub and tonight, I'm going to pull, and I'm going to get a fuck if it kills me.”

He saw that his words surprised Harry, but tried to remain unwavering in his determination.

“I'm sorry, I can't. I've got plans tonight.” Harry unfolded from the sofa and knelt down in front of the fire to talk to him. “I've cancelled on this person once and... I'm not going to do it again. I owe them more than that.”
“Oh.” Ron wouldn't admit it, but the wind went out of his sails. He felt deflated. “Oh, right. Never mind.”
“Sorry,” Harry said genuinely. “God knows you need to get out.”
“It's fine. Have a good night, yeah?”
“Yeah.”

Harry smiled at him, a warm smile which reminded Ron of the night they had spent cuddled together on his bed, and the morning after when Harry had awoken bleary eyed and thankful, so thankful that he hadn't climbed out of the bed for an hour after waking, preferring to stay within Ron's embrace. Of course, they hadn't mentioned that to one another since it had happened.

“See you later,” Ron grinned at him, and without another word pulled back out of the flames and coughed as his own living room came into focus around him. “Thanks for nothing, Harry.”

Angrily he got to his feet, aiming a kick at the rug he had been kneeling on to make the firecall. It had taken him half an hour to work up the nerve to firecall Harry only to be shot down in flames. All Ron knew was that he couldn't sit alone in the flat that evening. He glanced at the clock.

There was an hour until the time he had specified in his email to Seek to meet up. He hadn't set his computer back up since the night he'd packed it away, and he had no idea whether the man had replied to his rude email or not. Despite his decision to remove himself from the Internet world, Ron found himself compelled to head to Euston Square anyway -to see whether his friend would be there, or not.

You don't even know what he fucking looks like!

Laughing at himself, Ron shook his head. He looked at the clock again.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, and stamped to the bedroom to get ready.

***
Disappointment tingled in every single inch of him. It could have been the cold, Ron acknowledged, but he knew it was deeper than that. He had been slightly early, but the hour was long past and he was still alone. Nobody had stopped and looked about, searching out a face that they had never laid eyes on before. Nobody had even paused to glance at him. Balling his fingers into fists to try and ignite some warmth in them, Ron counted down the seconds in his brain. He had given himself a total of a minute more, which his mind had started to depressingly count down.

Five.

Fuck him.

Four.

And fuck me too. Stupid idiot.

Three.

Which pub?

Two.

How much vodka?

Two and a half.

How much will I have to drink before I pass out?

One.

Fuck.

Ron coughed to herald the point of no return. He looked once more up and down the pavement, and on seeing nobody approaching, peeled himself from the wall and started left, towards the mainline station, just as he had on the first night he had waited to be disappointed. Cursing himself as a fool, he wondered exactly why he had banked his hopes on that night being any different.

What's wrong with me?

Deep in thought, Ron didn't hear the quick footsteps behind him. Normally he was more on-guard, his Auror training never fully switched off in his mind, but he was so pre-occupied with gloom he didn't realise that anybody was there until they grabbed his arm.

Trying to jerk it free, Ron whirled around, mouth open, ready to bellow at whichever mugger was trying to steal his wears. The breath went out of his lungs, however, when he saw dark, impossible hair, round glasses and bright emerald eyes, which were as wide with surprise as his own must have been.

“What are-” he blurted the words into Harry's face.
“Flamehead, right?” Harry said, his voice quiet.

Ron's blood seemed to turn to ice. Harry's grip did not release his arm and they stood there, traffic roaring past them on the road, pedestrians idling past, while they stared at one another. Time seemed to speed up as he thought of every single conversation that he had held with his online friend -he remembered the porn, he remembered confessing his sexuality, he remembered talking about his experiences with self-harm and the older man he had been sleeping with on and off for over a year. He remembered Seek telling him about the difficulties with his fiancée --Ginny-- and how they were ending it. Nausea rose through his chest and Ron fought hard to control it.

“I-”

Ron cut off Harry's feeble attempt at speech by snatching up his hand and breaking into a run, pulling the shorter man behind him without heed for his comfort or ability to keep up. Ron darted across the dangerous crossing, ignoring that the little man was red, warning danger. He barely felt the ground beneath his feet as he steamed up the ramp to the court in front of the station concourse. Pigeons jumped into the air as they ran, past the closed concession stands and into the dark, slightly covered pathway towards the end of the station.

“Ron-” Harry's pant was pleading, but Ron didn't stop.

He reached the pavement and wobbled on the edge of the curb as a taxi roared past; Harry pulled him back just in time. Warm arms were wrapped around his chest and Ron nearly moaned with pleasure. When the road was clear he took off again, upset about the fact that he was no longer holding Harry's hand. He nearly slammed into the automatic doors of the hotel as he tried to enter the lobby. He raced up to the desk and heard Harry's panting behind him.

“I need a room,” he said desperately to the woman manning the reception. “A double room, I don't care how much it costs.”

She stared at him in surprise and looked over his shoulder at Harry.

“For two?” she asked, her voice oddly polite.

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation steamrollered Ron, hitting him with full force. The lights of the lobby were too bright. The scent of the commercial air freshener was too strong. The woman behind the desk was smiling too widely.

“Fuck,” he muttered, tipping his face forward into his fingers.
“Yes, a double room for two.” Harry's voice was too silky, too calm. Ron wanted to thump him. “Do you have breakfast facilities here?”
“Unfortunately not, sir. But there are plenty of food options in the station over the road.”
“Of course. How much?”
“That'll be eighty-nine pounds, sir.”

Ron wanted to protest at the extortionate cost of the room but found his voice had deserted him. Harry rummaged in his pocket and handed over his magic little plastic card, the type that all Muggles had, and the woman handed him a machine. He pressed numbers whilst Ron looked on dumbly.

“Excellent, your receipt and your key, sir. I hope you have a pleasant stay with us here this evening. Check out is at midday.”
“Thank you.” Again, Harry was unnervingly calm and Ron hated him as they started towards the doors leading to the hotel rooms.

He was silent as they entered the lift, keeping his gaze on his boots. The lift caused his belly to swoop and feel even sicker, but all he could think about was what was going to happen when the hotel door was locked, and they were alone.

“I think it's this way.”

Ron hadn't even noticed that the doors had opened. He hurried out onto the landing and followed Harry, who was looking at numbers as they passed.

“This one.” Harry stuck the electronic key card into the slot on the door and they both heard it click; the little light on the box turned to green.

The room was immaculately boring when light from the corridor spilt into it, with the necessities; a bed, a travel kettle with cups and free tea and coffee. Towels. A television. A bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him. Neither of them bothered to turn on the light. He could just see Harry's thin outline in the darkness, and then, unable to stop his body from reacting, he reached for him. His fingers touched a slender waist and pulled it, turning them both, until he heard the satisfying thud of Harry's back into the door.

They kissed. Harry tasted of something strong, as if he had already been drinking that evening. Ron moaned when the lips beneath his own parted and permitted him entrance. Harry's fingers were touching him, seeking entrance into his coat. They caught hold of the zip and tugged it down and immediately warm hands spread over Ron's chest. They curled around his back and pulled him closer, sliding down to rest on his hips and web over the tops of his buttocks. Harry yanked him, pressing their groins together.

“Fuck,” Ron whimpered, experimentally giving a roll of his hips to see what it would feel like.

Of course, he had rolled his hips against many a man in his time, but the friction had never caused white light to explode behind his closed eyelids like it did just then –when the man he was rolling against was Harry.

His jacket hit the floor with a thump; Ron hadn't even noticed Harry pushing it from his shoulders. He shivered in the cool air of the room and shivered again when Harry's hands smoothed up his forearms and gripped them.

“It was you all along,” he whispered, voice husky. “It was you... telling me that you hurt yourself, that you were gay. That you couldn't fucking tell anybody. God, Ron....”
“I know,” Ron muttered desperately. “I know. Shut up, Harry. Shut up. Just...”

He didn't finish, but connected their mouths together again and pressed harder with his body. His cock was solid in his pants, and felt mirroring hardness at Harry's groin. That his friend -the boy he had known since eleven and stood shoulder-to-shoulder through a war with, was hard for him- caused Ron's blood to drum in his ears.

His spine arched when Harry detached from his mouth, lowered his face, and bit hard into the side of Ron's neck.

“Again,” he panted, tipping his head back to give easier access. “Do it again.”

Harry complied and bit harder, keeping his teeth dug into Ron's flesh and allowing his tongue little licks at the skin he was nibbling. The bite turned into a kiss, which developed into tiny, further kisses all over Ron's neck and throat, right up behind his ear and on his ear and in his ear, which made him shudder with delight.

Ron reached between them and palmed what he could of the bulge in Harry's jeans. He gripped the shaft through the denim and gave it a slow rub; Harry's keen was music to his ears. He sped up, rubbing harder and faster despite the ache in his wrist. When fingertips caressed his belly, Ron froze, and when Harry popped open the button of his jeans, Ron bit hard into his lip with anticipation.

“So big...” Harry murmured, and stroked one fingertip over the head of Ron's cock, which had escaped his boxers and was creeping towards his belly.
“I wanna fuck you,” Ron blurted, rising onto his tip toes to gain more contact with Harry's solitary finger. “I wanna fuck you until you come...”
“I want to do that to you...” Harry answered back. “Until you're begging me to stop.”
“You top?” Ron breathed, staring at him through the darkness.
“When I can. You?”
“When I can,” Ron repeated. “But with you... Godric, I want to have you.”
“Take turns,” Harry grunted, shoving Ron's jeans down his legs. “I fuck, you fuck, we both win, we both get fucked... Ungh!”

Harry's cry was in response to the fact that Ron had undone his jeans during their conversation and seized his cock without warning through just the thin cotton of his briefs. He began to pump it, accelerating to a punishing pace which he knew he wouldn't have been able to withstand. Harry's hands fell away from him as he sagged against the door, moaning loudly under Ron's ministrations.

“Harder,” he moaned. “More.”

Ron started to pant trying to give Harry what he wanted. His own cock was aching, neglected, wanting more beautiful touch and, more than anything, to release. He let go of Harry, causing an aggrieved cry, and pulled down both sets of underwear. Bending his knees, he captured first his own prick and then Harry's, wrapping his long fingers around them both. When he rubbed, they rubbed together, and the feeling nearly knocked his head off.

Harry's hand joined his and they rubbed in unison, bucking together and then kissing, moaning loudly when the friction grew too delicious to keep quiet about. Harry bit Ron's lip and held it. Ron reached his free hand behind Harry and gripped his arse, pulling him closer into the embrace and controlling his thrusts.

“Fuck it, I can't last.” The words were a hiss and Ron relished them.
“Good,” he muttered darkly into Harry's ear, before he sucked a soft lobe into his mouth and nibbled it with his teeth.

There was a loud shout of completion from the boy trapped between him and the door, and then Harry went rigid. Hot cream landed on Ron's fingers and the heat was searing. He thought about it; Harry's come dripping in between his long digits; Harry's come dripping down over both of their cocks; Harry's come somehow making it into his mouth; Ron licking Harry's come directly from the source; Harry drinking Ron's come from the same.

The filthy thoughts spurred him into orgasm. Ron didn't fight when his body tensed and he came over both of them, coating Harry's hand as his own was coated, feeling their bellies sliding together, lubricated by their mixed juices. Their fingers laced together.

“Harry...” he breathed the name and put his forehead to Harry's. A soft kiss was pressed just to the left of his mouth.
“Ron.” A warm hand smoothed up beneath his t-shirt, stroking his back. “Bedtime.”
“Bed,” Ron confirmed dreamily, allowing Harry to slide out from beneath him.

He let his hand go and laced his fingers with Harry's. He stumbled out of the jeans around his ankles as they walked. The white, pristine duvet was thrown back and they both crawled in, not caring that they would be dirtying the sheets with their own semen and sweat. They curled together in a perfect shape, Harry's back to Ron's chest, legs tangled together, heads close on the pillow. Ron hid his face in the back of Harry's neck.

“Did you know it was me?” Harry asked quietly.
“I didn't have the foggiest,” Ron murmured in response. “But... fuck, Harry. I'm so glad it's you.”
“We've missed so many signs,” Harry said, with a slight laugh of disbelief.
“Don't think about it.” Ron kissed his neck. “Not yet.”

They fell silent and listened to the sounds of the city beyond the hotel window.

“Does this place ever sleep?” Ron asked.
“No. I like it that way...” Harry answered.
“Me too,” Ron confirmed.

They were silent again. A bus roared up the road. A train crept into the station just across the way. Despite the hubbub of the city, Ron found it comforting; outside noise to a world of peace beneath the duvet.

“Ron?” Harry turned back to face him. Ron was poked in the eye by the glasses the man had forgotten to remove.
“Mm?”
“Ginny-”
“Not now,” Ron said stonily.
“I just wanted to say that... we broke it off last week. That night I didn't turn up. She threw the ring at my head. She moved out of Grimmauld that night... and when you found me in the Leaky... I was drowning my sorrows. Nobody knows yet. I wanted... I wanted you to know first, but I couldn't find the balls to tell you.”
“Pretty graphic way of telling me,” Ron pointed out sleepily.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”

Ron felt Harry's eyes on him and forced his own open to meet them.

“What are we going to do?” Harry asked nervously.
“You're going to be here when I wake up,” Ron said. “Let's start with that.”

***
The bed felt like white clouds supporting his body. Ron appreciated the way that the heavy duvet was layered over his naked groin, resting on his penis and balls, caressing his belly and skimming his nipples. It felt like peace. He shifted his head on the pillow and heard a soft murmur from next to him.

Harry.

All at once, the evening before converged on him, making his head swim. His eyes flew open and he saw Harry staring at him, head propped up on one hand.

“Hey,” Harry smiled. “Do you want to talk about how long you've been repressing your sexuality now, or after we've foraged for breakfast?”

Ron groaned and closed his eyes to the sunlight filling the room.

“You're still here,” he said, disbelievingly.
“I'm still here.” Harry kissed his cheek. “And now, as Ron to Harry, I want you to tell me everything. From the start.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know that you can tell me these things... as me. We can't work on this if you're going to keep secrets like you have for months.”
“You want to work on this?” Ron asked thickly, smacking his lips, desperately in need of a drink.

“I want you to be happy,” Harry confirmed. “I know it's going to take some working out... with your family. You're in the dark to them as well... and I don't understand why. Charlie's gay. They're not homophobes, Ron.”
“But they're... Ronaphobes,” he said clumsily. “Everything I do they find fault with. It's all been done before.”
“I thought you'd gotten over this?” Harry asked sadly.

Ron shrugged where he lay and turned his head towards his best friend. “I'm not as strong as you like to think I am, Harry. At all. I'm weak as piss -like your tea making skills.”

Harry laughed, and hot breath gushed over Ron's face. Even he had to smile.

“Weak or not, you're Ron. And you're very much loved, so please, stop worrying, and stop fucking hiding.”
“Loved...” Ron repeated softly.
“Loved,” Harry said firmly, eyebrows rising into his bird's nest hair.

Humbled, Ron looked away, and took to heart the hard squeeze to his hand, which he hadn't even realised that Harry was holding.

“And I love you,” Harry carried on. Ron wanted him to stop. “And I think that... I should love you in a different way now. I think we should... that we should be... you and me. Harry and Ron. As Harry and Ron.”
“Stop talking,” Ron groaned. “Just... you're making it worse.”

He laughed and sniffed, clearing his sinuses of morning fog. He reached up and rubbed at his eyes.

“At least now I know why I was so attached to you,” he said finally. “Why you understood me. Why you were so fucking easy to talk to. It felt like I'd known you all my life -and I pretty much had.”
“Same here. You were funny. Light relief. You made me feel good, like... Ron made me feel good.” Harry made a face at the description.
“When I thought you were neglecting me... you were always there,” Ron realised aloud. “Always.”

Harry nodded and they simply looked at one another.

“Check out is in ten minutes,” Harry whispered.

Ron didn't know what to say. He didn't know where to go from the hotel room. He wasn't sure he even remembered how to put one foot in front of the other.

“Go and book another night,” he instructed, and rolled over to kiss Harry on the lips.

What to do could wait another day.

-fin-